Shes not the only one, from what I hear tell, said the other man. The slaves are in an uproar. Ive never seen them so agitated, not even when father died. (Am I dreaming again, thought Amelia? When did I fall asleep?) (She saw that it was night again in Devereux Manor, and that Phillip stood at the very same fireplace shed sat at with Ms. Price that morning. Phillip looked lean and tired, his flesh gone sallow, his clothes a little rumpled. The parlor was dominated by a great, hideous oil painting over the mantle, a painting of a glowering man she guessed must be Archibald Devereux. Just beneath the painting, twin busts of Janus surveyed the entire room, one direction and the other.) (Phillip was speaking to a man who looked only a few years older than him, a ginger-haired rake with drooping eyelids and the bud of a great white rose tucked into his buttonhole. Amelia recognized him from another photo in Ms. Prices book, Andrew Devereux, Penelopes brother. She felt like giggling at. The meal went well and Tom spent time talking work with Ricky while Sara tried to keep out the way as much as possible. She felt numb from her experience and her mind was still reeling trying to piece together how she could have got into such a state. Fortunately she had checked and there was no evidence that they had done anything. She cursed herself for even suspecting. She could be so stupid at times. But even so she was deeply disturbed by the experience and could not hide the fact that she was not herself for the rest of the evening. ‘That seemed to go well.’ Tom was leaning on the doorway of the study after Ricky had left. ‘He seemed pleased with what I presented to him and has asked me to develop some of the ideas further. He will come round one evening next week to discuss them. So it all seems to have gone well.’ ‘Are you OK Sara? You didn’t seem quite yourself tonight.’ She turned towards her husband and felt her heart plummet. ‘It wasn’t easy to meet him for the first time.
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